


Coup De Main

by GreendaleHumanBeing



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: Aldo curses a lot, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Blood, Cannibalism, Crossover, Death, Hannibal eats them obvs, M/M, Violence, Will and his rag-tag team of cute boys killing German soldiers, Will uses a HARPOON to kill Nazis, World War II, also Nazi-killing boyfriends, and death, lots of blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:13:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreendaleHumanBeing/pseuds/GreendaleHumanBeing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham is lost and then found.  A lot of Nazis die along the way.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Cajun

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [HANNIBAL BASTERD AU](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/35416) by hannigram.com. 



> I obviously don’t own Hannibal or Inglourious Basterds. The inspiration of this piece was a beautiful piece of fanart. And my headcannons for this AU just came pouring in. I was originally going to make this one long piece but I’d like to get this first chapter published because writing chapter by chapter will be easier for me due to school work and other real life responsibilities I’d rather not deal with but have to. So please send me your feedback and constructive criticism and love. 
> 
> The translations for other languages are at the end of the chapters. I used google translate so it might not be perfect. The title is a military term that means “a swift attack that relies on speed and surprise to accomplish objectives in a single blow” taken from Wikipedia. I know this time in history was dark and it still affects people today so I don't want to downplay the seriousness of it all just to pair two characters together. I like exploring the history of this event as well and I want to make that clear as well as seeing how Hannibal and Will would fit into this historical period. But I truly hope you all enjoy this story, I worked and procrastinated homework hard to write it. 
> 
> Bon appétit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So tell us fine gentlemen about yourself, Mister Graham.” Raine is a pleasant mix of the South’s hospitality and brassy righteousness. He is a man with purpose and Will immediately admires that. 
> 
> “Grew up in Louisiana and hooked me some fish as a boy. And as a man, I’d like to hook me some Nazis.”

_Paris, 1944_

_Autumn_  

The winding, cobblestone streets in the famed City of Love have only been leading him to dead ends.  The frigid, dry air has settled under his thin coat and translated into a cold, heavy loneliness that seeps into his bones.  He wanted a chance to fight in the war, to make right the horrors he witnessed first-hand; a chance that his country had denied him.  It seemed their desperation for men didn’t extend to those who are mentally unstable. 

In Louisiana, the wind blew rumors through the Cypress trees.  Will Graham couldn’t make out the words but he could feel it building as if it were bubbling from below the swamps themselves: a reckoning.  And he wanted _badly_ to get involved.  For two years following University, following the tour abroad that went awry, Will has had crippling nightmares.  He’d wake in a pool of sweat he imagined to be blood and fist at his hair in frustration because he could do nothing to save anyone but himself.

But the wondering words of promise sailed across oceans to reach him.  He followed them to Europe and heard the voices sing as he arrived in Paris.  This was a month ago.  

After an entire first day of nothing, he had tried whispering himself.  Breathing into the ears of those who would listen.  He’d gotten a few leads in exchange for German blood. (Small jobs.  Be it discretely slitting a throat here or covertly skinning a Nazi there).    

He’d eventually met with second-hand friends of friends in unobtrusive locations but has never once stared straight into the horse’s mouth.  A name, Lieutenant Aldo Raine, is all he has to work from.  But he can feel the impending urgency around him.  The city of Paris is tainted, stained with the blood of his people.  He can see it pooling in the streets and seeping into the catacombs beneath the city.  And as much as he tries to ignore it, he sees the blood staining his own hands, unable to be scrubbed away.  He wants redemption. 

He wants Nazi blood staining his fingers instead. 

Will tilts his head back and feels a chill on his neck.  The sky is plum and the sun has all but retreated away to overlook a safer land.  Will curses with a uniquely southern mix of French and English profanity as he checks his watch.  Curfew is to begin in ten minutes and his current, shabby shelter (barely a home, not even close to Louisiana) is fifteen minutes away. 

He bolts.  His thinly covered feet slap harshly against the stone sending jolts up his legs.  Too-thin children, enjoying their last moments of freedom for the day, stare as he rushes past them.  The closer he gets to his makeshift home, the fewer people there are milling about outside.  Will knows the numbing dread of danger and hurries his pace.  Finally, he sees it, the dirty, grimy Oasis in the desert of Nazi Paris.  He could almost taste the meager can of beans he’s going to gulp down for dinner. 

And then he’s on the ground tasting grit and blood instead.  All he can see is leather and laces. 

"C'est le couvre-feu?" From Will’s place on the ground he must look like an ant. The harsh French thrown at him is uttered by an unforgiving self-named God about to stomp on him.  Will stands up, focusing his attention on the Nazi Soldier’s right ear. 

“Oui. Désolé. Ma maison est juste là.”  His French is rusty and his words taste mispronounced with disuse.  Despite growing up in an area that frequently mixed French with English, his grasp on the base language is focused on basic and crude phrases. 

The soldier is low ranking; Will recognizes the insignia on his jacket.  This makes him nervous.  The grunts have the most to prove.

“American.” The man spits, pleased when his saliva sprays Will’s face. 

Will is sweating now.  He dares not look into the man’s eyes directly.  He hears the distinct silence before a crushing blow, the shift in the air as a fist soars through it.  What he doesn’t feel is the pain he should be experiencing from a right hook. 

Will lifts his head and sees another soldier in front of him, holding the elbow of his comrade.  The second soldier is tall and poised with the air of a highly decorated fighter.  He speaks slowly in their native tongue, "Nicht in diesen Straßen! Gehen sie, ich werde mich um ihn kümmern"  The first soldier reluctantly pulls back with a scornful nod.  Though, he can’t resist tugging on Will’s hair briefly as he goose-steps away. 

Will is swishing blood between his teeth, waiting for the slightest provocation from the lone soldier left in front of him.  The quiet of the normally bustling Parisian streets is ringing in Will’s ears.  The man reaches forward clasping his hand on Will’s shoulder.  He guides the Louisiana native brusquely in the opposite direction of his house. 

Will briefly toys with the idea of clamping his canines into the meat of the man’s hand, then decides maybe he should spit blood in his face and run.  But he decisively opts not to choose either option.  If he were to free himself of this man, there are sure to be others like him.  Instead, Will decides to push his luck.

"Si tu veux me tuer, t'auras à sucer ma bite en premier."  It’s lazy French; he actively pronounces every single ‘s’ and ensures that his Cajun accent is laid on heavily. He’s protesting the entire language because it has been abused by the Germans.  And that makes it ugly. 

Will has taunted German officers before, usually before he drops them off at death’s door, and they snarl and gnash their teeth the most at spoken insinuations.  He could torture them for days and they’d remain silent but the moment they are insulted, they hiss back with venom.  So it’s safe for Will to assume the man would beat him to a bloody, Cajun pulp but what Will receives instead is a loud guffaw.  The man throws his head back to the dark sky and puffs out a breath. 

“Your tenacity is admirable.” the soldier laughs in precise English, “you’ll be perfect,”

Nazi laughter is darker than this, Will thinks.  Those men only find pleasure in destruction, disembowelment and the disease of their propaganda.  The idea of a Nazi laughing at a joke is unheard of unless the punch line is a dead Jew.   

“Ah, here we are!”  The soldier announces brightly.  He waves his arms theatrically towards a gritty alcove between a butcher shop and a bakery.  And it’s in this motion that Will notices a grand distinction between this man and his comrades in arms.  Will had always encountered a God complex amongst the Nazis he’s disposed of; their misplaced senses of control leave them cocky and self-righteous.  As if their sworn allegiance to their tattered, misguided homeland makes them saviors of a greater cause, a new religion born in the blood of millions of innocents. (And Will ensures that they drown in their own blood and tears just as they do to others). 

But this man is not a God.  Nor does he believe that he is one.  In fact, Will is sure this man is not even a man.  No, he’s a snake in wolf’s clothing and the moment he opened his expression, he dropped his wolfish facade for something sly and slow burning.

Will’s pupils fatten in the dull light and detect a nondescript door attached to the bakery.  The man guides him into the doorway leading to a dim room.  It smells of tobacco and stale dough.  The florescent light above flickers to life and a table of men, all smoking and covered in dirt, is illuminated.  They all turn, one-by-one, to face Will, all grinning with enough teeth to let him know that they’re predators but not enough to hint that he’s their prey. 

His life is now a war-ravaged Lewis Carroll novel; a scruffy Alice misses the rabbit hole and ends up in the snake’s den. 

A man stands resolutely from the table, medium build with narrow shoulders and a wide gait. Will is immediately drawn to the skinning knife resting in his belt. 

“Welcome to the fuckin’ club!”  he gestures to the room and the men laugh and guffaw.  His voice has a twang, enough for Will to know he’s not from Louisiana but a little further north.  “These, are the Basterds—“ more hooting and hollering, “and I am Lieutenant Aldo Raine.  We’ve heard a lot of good things about _you_ , Will Graham.” 

The whispers that caressed his mind daily are no longer muffled; they’ve morphed into shouts and hymns bouncing off of the shabby wooden walls.  They harmonize beautifully against the brash noise of the men in the room and Will is left with the comfort of being found. 

“So tell us fine gentlemen about yourself, Mister Graham.”  Raine is a pleasant mix of the South’s hospitality and brassy righteousness. He is a man with purpose and Will immediately admires that. 

“Grew up in Louisiana and hooked me some fish as a boy.  And as a man, I’d like to hook me some Nazis.” 

The Basterds cheer and toast to his succinct introduction.  Raine claps a hand on his shoulder and Will thinks this is the kinship he’s been looking for. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> 1\. C'est le couvre-feu (French)→ The curfew is in effect  
> 2\. Oui. Désolé. Ma maison est juste là (French)→Yes. Sorry. My home is just there  
> 3\. Nicht in diesen Straßen! Gehen sie, ich werde mich um ihn kümmern (German)→Not in the streets. You go, I'll take care of him.  
> 4\. Si tu veux me tuer, t'auras à sucer ma bite en premier. (French) → If you want to kill me, you'll have to suck my cock first
> 
> Hannibal is going to enter in later chapters, I want to set the scene for him first. I’d like to show Will getting used to the Basterds and how his character changes before meeting Hannibal and becoming Nazi murdering boyfriends.


	2. The Fisherman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raine slams a glass on the table in front of him with a grin, “You a whiskey man, Will?”  
> He tends to prefer wine; something he’d never lived down back at home, but a few fingers of whiskey eases him just the same.  
> “I’ll drink whatever you’re offerin’.” Raine pours the whiskey with a flourish and laughs at Will’s candor  
> “Now that is the kinda attitude I like.” They clink their glasses and swallow down their drinks. 
> 
> Will grows accustomed to having brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank my lovely beta SageMasterofSass for all of her help with this chapter, I probably would post a shittier version if it weren't for her looking everything over. This is significantly longer than the last and I hope you all enjoy it! Please leave feedback!

The room quiets as Will walks over to the table. It’s dim and foggy but Will can identify six men encouraging him forward with welcoming eyes. A heavy gaze clings to his back and Will knows it’s the seventh man who had guided him inside. 

The thrum of anticipation is flagrant; it smells like caution and the blooming beginnings of familiarity. Emotions flitter in and out of his vision only to end up buzzing in his ears. Will senses curiosity. He smells the anxiety and nerves but there’s something else present as well, something opaque and unyielding. It’s coated uniformly around the room. Will laughs to himself once he realizes it’s a feeling he knows all too well; the desire for revenge. 

Will finally takes his seat at the table. While leaning back and precariously tilting the chair onto its two rickety hind legs, he packs his faded, handmade pipe with the meager amount of tobacco he has left from home. For a fleeing moment, as the sweet aroma of Southern tobacco hits his lungs, his stomach feels as if it has settled somewhere below his navel. Nostalgia sits heavily on his chest.

Will wonders for the first time if he’ll ever see Louisiana again. And he thinks on this for a moment, pensively puffing smoke from the corner of his mouth in steady streams as the men around him light their own respective cigarettes. His time in Paris has been brief and, based on the pile of army-style canvas bags stacked in the corner of the nearly-bare room, he’ll be leaving again soon. Killing Nazis requires stealth and Will knows that’s only gained through nomadic behavior. He figures his time in Paris is up, anyway. The bayou state he grew up in seems further away than ever before. 

Will can’t imagine dying yet but he’d like to have his ashes scattered over his river, the one he’d fished in since he was old enough to make his own lures. 

The excess smoke filling the room leads Will to shuck off his jacket, face flushed fevered red with extra heat. His mental fog is broken by the raising temperature but he’s now caught in a literal fog, trapped in clouds smelling of smoky Sunday mornings. 

Raine slams a glass on the table in front of him with a grin, “You a whiskey man, Will?”

He tends to prefer wine; something he’d never lived down back at home, but a few fingers of whiskey eases him just the same. 

“I’ll drink whatever you’re offerin’.” Raine pours the whiskey with a flourish and laughs at Will’s candor

“Now that is the kinda attitude I like.” They clink their glasses and swallow down their drinks. 

The other men in the room are chattering, a few in gruff, boisterous tones while others conversed in a lighter manner. Will doesn’t look at them yet. He’s unsure of where to focus his eyes so he instead decides to focus his ears on the sounds around him as he stares at his half full glass. 

The slow hiss of burning cigarettes and barking laughter from one of the Basterds is all Will hears before Raine bangs his fist on the table as a makeshift gavel. Everyone halts their conversation, the laughter abruptly ends and the men stand up. They salute before sitting back down while Will gets a brief glance at an angry pink scar across Raine’s neck. 

“Well, now that everyone is finally fuckin’ here—” Raine glares at the man who guided Will to their location but it’s lacking heat. “—we can start introductions.” Will revels in his flawed pronunciation of the word ‘introduction.’ Entirely too much emphasis on the ‘n’ and not nearly enough on the ‘t’ but it eases the Louisiana native enough to properly listen. 

“Will, I’ll answer whatever questions you got after I go around and tell you who each of these sons-a-bitches are.” Raine drops his cigarette on the stone floor and stomps it out with his boot. He then gestures to the man on his right. “Now, this here is Gerold Hirschberg,” he points to the man next to Hirschberg. “Then Omar Ulmer and next to him is Smithson Utivich, all born and raised in the good ol’ United States.”

Hirschberg is a young looking man, no older than twenty years old by Will’s estimate, and he’s somber in demeanor. He offers Will a hand, at which Raine makes a frustrated noise. “As nice as that is, Gerold, we don’t have time for fuckin’ handshakes!” The men around him snicker and instead of looking admonished, Hirschberg is amused. Will assumes this isn’t the first time Raine has chastised him for his manners. 

Shifting his eyes from Hirschberg, Will studies Ulmer. He has an open, expressive face topped by dark hair that’s already starting to recede. His large hands are folded until he separates them to send a brief wave at Will. 

And Utivich has a mousey look to him; he obviously admires Raine because their slouched postures are identical. He nods, acknowledging Will’s presence and gives a fleeting smile that the bayou boy recognizes to be honest. 

“There’s Donny Donowitz, another American. Saw him kill two Nazis at once by smackin’ their heads together—” Raine claps his palms together roughly—“with one swing of a fuckin’ baseball bat.” Donowitz bows sardonically, causing the room to briefly erupt in a fit of laughter, but the grin tugging on his mouth isn’t one of malice.

“Over here is Hugo Stiglitz,” Raine gestures to a stoic man. He’s drinking the same brand of whiskey Aldo had poured earlier while smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. A grunt is all Will receives from this man but he senses it’s equal to a polite greeting. 

“Stiglitz here infiltrated the German military and brutally killed high ranking officers in cold blood. I’d like to fuckin’ toast to that—” The sentiment is well received, for Will and the other men that are drinking all raise their cups like golden chalices, high enough for Will to see the leaky ceiling through the glass bottoms. 

“And finally,” Raine clears his throat and massages his scar. Will briefly feels the phantom pain on his own neck. “The man who brought ya here is Wilhelm Wicki, he’s from Austria. Moved to America for a while before joinin’ up with us.” Will allows himself one close look at the man. He’d pulled up a chair a short while after Will sat and is seated next to Donowitz, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. When he notices the room glancing at him, he laughs slightly before announcing, “Oh, Will and I are already acquainted.” He grins crookedly at Will and Raine looks befuddled.

“What did you say to him, Wilhelm? You were under direct orders to not say a word until he was brought here.” Raine is more confused than angry at his soldier. Wicki must be trustworthy if Raine is surprised at him seemingly disobeying instructions. 

“I didn’t say much, you should ask Graham what he said.”

Raine swivels his attention back to Will, comedic expression of surprise still overpowering his face. 

“Well, Will? What the fuck d’ja say to get Wilhelm in such a cheeky mood?” Raine and the rest of the men are expectant. Will rolls his eyes, defensive and nervous to be put on the spot. 

“In my own defense, I thought I was gunna get gutted.”

Donowitz makes an impatient noise, “Spit it out already!”

“Fine, fine,” Will huffs. “I said: Si tu veux me tuer, t'auras à sucer ma bite en premier."

Wicki peals into laughter again, just as he had when Will first uttered the statement. It echoes and reverberates off of the splintering, wooden walls. The other men in the room are silent.

“And uh, what the fucks that mean?” Raine speaks for the group, slightly louder than normal to be heard over Wicki’s enthusiastic cackling. 

Will is resigned and flushed cherry red. “It means: If you want to kill me, you’ll have to suck my cock first.”

The Blitzkrieg of mirth starts as a giggle from Utivich, chased by a full-bellied chuckle from Raine until they’re all clutching their sides and sputtering. The Basterds manage to knock over four drinks (a record according to Raine later on) in their hysterical hurry to bang their fists on the table. Will swears he sees a few tears, squeezed out from laughing too hard, streaking Hirschberg’s face and a full-blown, all teeth grin from Stiglitz. 

Raine wipes away a few stray teardrops and points a finger at Will, “If you’re even thinkin’ of callin’ me Raine or some bullshit like that…don’t. After hearin’ that, you are under orders to call me Aldo. We’re given our first names for a goddamn reason and we’re all brothers in arms now.”

The room is quickly purged of amusement, a balloon popped by the sharp shift in demeanor. Will wouldn’t call the mood somber but it is heartfelt. A determined expression is gracing every face around the table and Will is unknowingly mirroring it back. He’s reminded why he sought Paris in the first place, why he left his quiet home to enter a war he could have entirely avoided. Will’s never had a brother. 

“You got it, Aldo.” Will hesitates before continuing, “but I did want to ask you one thing. How did you find me?” 

At this, Aldo leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. His mouth forms a thin pink line. “We knew about you as soon as you came to Paris.” 

For some reason, this bit of information doesn’t shock Will. He’s always felt eyes on him in Paris but, at the time, he’d assumed it was a normal feeling amongst Parisians under German rule. He’s actually pleased to know that the threat of the Nazis does not directly hinder the warning duties of his anxiety. But even if it were just the Basterds watching him, the idea of being under scrutiny still makes him nervous. 

“We wanted to keep an eye on you, though. Just to see what kind of person you are.” Will’s palms begin to sweat. As a man who feels near-constant guilt and other ugly, twisting feelings in his stomach, he doesn’t think upon himself favorably. And the possibility of hearing his own fears and dark feelings parroted back to him will cut deep enough to gouge out his eyes twice over. But the Basterds must have seen something they like in him or else he would still be chasing shadows across Paris. He gulps. 

“And?”

Raines grins, “We like you, Will. You’ve got heart.” The irony of the statement is clear but Will does not point it out. And he’s touched, honored even. He’d always been so preoccupied with how sick his mind could be that he had entirely forgotten about his heart. He matches Aldo’s smile with a satisfied one of his own. 

The lieutenant looks pleased and the Basterds all seem to approve. Will leans back in his chair and allows Aldo to conduct the meeting. 

“All right, boys. Let’s get started.”

Though Will is slouched and only participates in a few portions of the rest of the meeting, he’s still raptly paying attention. He’s quite interested in taking note of the group dynamic. Aldo, with confidence and bravado, offers rumored reports of where Nazi troops will be, most planning to ambush Allied troops. He then picks out hot spots to send Wilhelm in order to find out more information. 

With Hugo too easily recognizable, Wilhelm is their best covert option. He has a knack for the German language and uncanny ability to convincingly wear a Nazi uniform. 

Wilhelm offers his opinions, “No, that place is too dangerous. Too many of them at once, I’ll definitely be found out.” 

Aldo nods patiently until he finds a location that allows them the maximum amount of cover and least chance of being discovered. They eventually decide on Nice, France. Nice is a mildly populous city, though its numbers don’t quite reach the vastness of Paris. Aldo wants a spot by the port; he’d heard the Nazis stationed there, checking shipments, know the route of a battalion on it’s way to a cluster of villages on the outskirts of France. 

The men are all in agreement, though Donny admits to swimming as well as a, “drowning fuckin’ rat.” Aldo laughs and says swimming wouldn’t be a requirement “but bathin’ sure as shit is, you know I’ll force you to bathe in whatever fuckin’ water source is available. You smell like fuckin’ garbage after two weeks.” The room has a brief laugh at Donny’s expense before Smithson stifles a yawn. Aldo’s eyes flicker—immediately becoming resolute. 

“I know you’re all tired, boys. I just wanted to say I appreciate your service to me and to the Allied forces of this war. I for one have spent too much goddamn time feeling sick and disgusted over the actions of the Germans. Feeling degraded and unworthy of the air that I breathe. That’s why we’re all here, because someone decided to call himself God and judge that we are unfit to live. And I will not take that bullshit. I will claw and I will fight until the very fuckin’ end. And I know ya’ll will too. We look the devil in the face each day, we see him in their smug looks and we kill him every chance we get. We might not put an end to this war ourselves but we’ll sure as shit strike fear into the hearts of every German that wears a swastika.” 

The sleepy haze that fell over the room is immediately transformed with the force of Aldo’s words. Sparks of indignation bite at Will, forcing him to notice the harsh, uniform lines settling over everyone’s face. Aldo is situated at the front of the room, silhouetted by the dusty slats of light from street-lamps creeping in through broken windows. His face is unreadable but his body is coiled tight. The rest of the men, Will included, have unknowingly lined up in front of him, dutiful soldiers ready for battle. 

And Will is awed at the strength Aldo emits to the room. At the determination of the men he’s in line with. He thinks again of Louisiana, of what he might be doing right now if he had never left. But for the life of him, Will cannot think of anything other than just being present here, right now, with his brothers in arms. For the first time in his life, Will salutes to a leader in unison with a closely tied group. Aldo doesn’t bow; he doesn’t smile sheepishly at the pure respect shining directly at him. He merely nods in understanding before sitting down, effectively allowing the energy in the room to fizzle out. 

With a lazy flick of his lighter, the end of his cigarette turns cherry red. He gazes at Wilhelm through a puff of smoke. 

“Before we sleep like fuckin’ babies, Wilhelm, you’ll need to go back to Will’s place and collect his things. You’re already in uniform and he’ll look suspicious walkin’ around after curfew.”

Wilhelm nods and puts out his cigarette in his glass. “Alright. What should I bring back for you?” He’s looking at Will now. Will ponders his options but doesn’t have to ponder too long. 

“I didn’t bring much with me from the states. I have a few spare changes of clothes, my papers, my box of fishin’ lures and equipment, and my rod. That’s all I’ll need. I should have a pack to put it all in at my place as well. Just make sure there’s no trace of me left.” Will looks around the room to find the men seemingly impressed with his forethought. 

“Gotcha, Will. I’ll be back soon.” With that and a cheeky grin, Wilhelm disappears behind the old wooden door. 

Gerold and Smithson stand, salute Aldo once more and pull out a few ratty blankets from a rucksack located in a dark corner of the dusty room. They pat Will on the back before they make small nests away from the door. Hugo somehow manages to light his cigarette and shuffle a deck of cards at the same time. They play a few rounds of poker in a comfortable silence to await Wilhelm’s return.

About an hour goes by. Wilhelm alerts the Basterds of his presence with a distinct knock on the door. Aldo swings it open. Wilhelm saunters back inside with a barely stifled yawn and the careful knowledge that he’s carrying all of Will’s worldly possessions in his hands. 

“Here you are, Will. I hope you don’t mind, I took a look at your lures and they’re beautifully made.” 

“Thank you.” Will mumbles, uncomfortable with the unexpected compliment. He gratefully accepts his possessions from Wilhelm and gingerly places them in a dark portion of the room where he’ll rest for the night. 

Will’s standing in front of the remaining men like a cowlick before it’s pressed into a uniform style. Not quite sure what to say, he bows his head.

“Thank you, honestly. I don’t know what I would have done if ya’ll hadn’t found me.” He feels a sturdy hand pat his shoulder and feels the vibration of Aldo’s answer as it slips down his spine.

“Head up, soldier. You’re a born fighter and you fight with us now. Get some rest.” Will raises his head slowly as if Aldo’s words gave him the strength to accomplish the task. 

When he had first arrived in Paris, he felt as if he were doomed to repeat his motions until the Nazis finally discovered him. Just as Sisyphus was doomed to constantly push a boulder up an incline only to watch it fall, Will would have been doomed to kill Nazis with no hope of information, only false promises and repetition of the same surreptitious name. 

He feels spiritually rejuvenated but physically tired. With a final, grateful yawn, Will slinks to his corner of the room and nods off for the night. 

He manages to get more sleep than he’s accustomed to. The differing cadences of snoring among the Basterds remind him of toad’s songs croaked in the moist air of the bayou at night. Falling asleep with white noise suits him more than silence. And without the Basterds, Paris is too quiet. 

The next morning, they all dress in silence. Their train is meant to leave at eight sharp. Wilhelm and Hugo are in their German uniforms and rehearsing false identities. Someone had managed to make Hugo a false mustache to avoid being recognized and Will notices a stark difference. Though he does look ridiculous, Will keeps it to himself. 

Donny and Aldo are dressed in suits. Trained to offer the fake tale of wedding of a distant relative in a rural portion of France just outside of Nice. Smithson, Omar and Gerold are posed as brothers visiting their elderly mother in Nice. Which leaves Will. He’s at home in his favorite flannel and a fishing vest. If he gets caught he’s going to claim the obvious: he’s on a fishing trip. He has his bag slung over his left shoulder with his fishing rod resting in his arms against his right. The weight of his fishing rod offers him a safe crutch to lean on. 

Aldo provides all of them with falsified paperwork and a stern warning of, “don’t fuckin’ get caught.” He tells them to meet at the nearest dock once off the train. They all nod in unison and separate themselves around the ornate train station. Will seats himself on an unoccupied bench and tilts his head back against the hard wood of the seat. 

The train is expected to arrive in roughly twenty minutes and Will can already feel his hands shaking. His heart rate is steadily speeding up, fluttering in his chest like a hummingbird and rattling against his ribs like a woodpecker. Closing his eyes eases the tension somewhat but the jumbled fog of elapsing voices is just as headache inducing as thinking about the task ahead of him. 

Going undercover is not something Will had thought he’d ever be attempting. He knows he’s not the most interesting person to look at, so he’d be easily overlooked in a crowd. But he’s clumsy and awkward. He doesn’t like to look people in the eye and a German soldier would take great offence to such insolence. He wouldn’t be able to escape on a train and that thought alone has him squirming in his seat.

A train whistle pierces the air and the steady hum of conversing travelers halts. The train chugs forward before screeching to a stop in front of Will’s bench. It takes all of his strength but Will manages to hoist himself up and onto the train. Will hands the conductor his papers, which are eyed closely with an air of superiority. The man is obviously German or at least in support of the German cause based on the vulgarly large swastika pinned to his uniform. Tasteless. 

After a tense moment and an extremely worried bottom lip, Will quietly accepts his identification back from the haughty conductor and finds an empty seat in a back row to occupy. He sees Hugo and Wilhelm, in their uniforms, seated a few rows ahead of him but the others are nowhere to be found, most likely riding in another car. Only two other Nazi soldiers are in this car both looking for a place to sit and Will is relieved at the small number. His relief is fleeting for the two men take a seat in the row in front of him. 

Will tightens his grip on his fishing rod as the train stutters to a start. The scenery rushing by the train window manages to distract him for a short while. The trees have just begun to change color. Burnt oranges blend with bright yellows and become vaguely brown blobs in the haste of the speeding train.

It’s a pity his visit to France is under such dim circumstances. Will would have liked to explore the country without the fear of his slow, torturous demise looming over his shoulder. 

He sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose with his eyes squeezed shut. His vision was slightly blurry all day, Aldo had made him stow away his glasses to avoid being recognized in the future and he feels oddly exposed without them. As he opens his eyes again he notices one of the Nazis in front of him gazing curiously at his fishing rod.

To Will’s surprise, the man speaks English. “What sort of rod is that?” The only lilt in his voice is one of curiosity. His face is bright and young, open for Will to see all the nuances in his inquisitive expression. 

Will sounds a little shaky but he could easily and falsely attribute it to lack of sleep. “Fly rod.” He’s short but the soldier still nods in understanding. He seems to have noticed Will’s unfamiliar accent but tactfully speaks nothing of it. Will notices Wilhelm glancing at him with his peripheral vision. He wrings his sweaty hands. 

“It’s absolutely beautiful, I must say! My father was quite the fisherman as well and I’m sure he’d say the same about such a rod.” 

Will feels sick and claustrophobic. The compliments taste like threats in the closed space and he can’t stop staring at the man’s hands. They look clean but Will still sees blood. His grimace manages to pass as a queasy smile.

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you.” He mumbles reluctantly. To an outside listener it sounds like modesty. 

The soldier nods, giving Will a lingering glance before returning to conversation with his companion. The air feels breathable again and Will notices Wilhelms tense shoulders relax. Curling into himself, the Louisiana native rests his head against the cool window of the train-car. He watches colors blur by for a little while before settling down for a nap.

He’s jostled awake by the soldier from before, a soft nudge of his shoulder uncharacteristic of a sadistic mass-murderer. The rickety motion of the train has stopped and patrons are exiting the car. Will’s shoulder burns. 

“Sorry to disturb you but the train has arrived in Nice.” He announces kindly. He’s alone, his companion must have left already. “You’ve slept for most of the ride. Quite a feat to sleep for almost five hours in the middle of the day!” He laughs lightly and Will wonders if he’s having a nightmare. He licks his dry lips and forces an answer.

“I…thank you.”

The other man hums in response and offers to accompany Will to his destination. Suddenly Will finds his heart jammed in his throat and he’s unable to swallow the unintelligible series of “uhh’s” as they tumble out of his mouth. The soldier laughs again and Will winces.

“It’s not a problem, I have some spare time on my hands.” And blood. Plenty of blood on those hands. Will licks his lips again. It’s a nervous habit, an oral fixation, as his psychology texts would call it. 

“I’m just going fishing, it’ll be mighty boring for you” Will truly tries to escape but it seems the decision is already made.

“Nonsense, I’m sure we could teach each other. It’s been ages since I’ve been fishing.”  
And this is how Will finds himself entertaining a Nazi soldier for the entirety of his afternoon. He intently studies Will’s technique and admires the lures that he’d hand-made. Will is tense the entire time, keeping his eyes peeled below the docks to where he’s sure the Basterds will be meeting up.

At some point when the sun is beginning to dip in the sky, the soldier mentions his name, Max, and asks Will for his own name.

“Edward.” Will stutters, gripping his fishing rod tightly.

And Max mentions how interesting his name is and Will is fighting every urge to vomit over the side of the dock. It’s about six in the evening, with the sun about to give up for the day, when Max finally takes his leave. His hand lingers on Will’s shoulder in a way that a lover’s might. Will is disgusted but hides it well until Max parades away with an ephemeral wave. 

He’s not ashamed to admit that the man’s face was appealing, as was his body but the uniform he wears is more to Will than clothing. The insignia seeps below the skin and spreads like an infection. It decays the heart and turns blood to bile. Once it reaches the brain, the person is no longer human. Max is a monster that Will is going to vanquish. 

Footsteps clunk against the wood and the Basterds find Will with his head in his hands on the dock. He hears Aldo’s voice, matter-of-fact and direct. 

“You were on a date with a Nazi.” Omar and Smithson giggle. Will wants to punch them. 

Instead, he groans. “It was not a date.”

Will glances up, feeling as if he at least owes Aldo some attention at the moment regardless of his pounding headache.

“I’ll repeat myself because it seems like you lost your hearing along with your goddamn mind. You were on a fuckin’ date with a fuckin’ Nazi. Will, we don’t care who you fuck as long as you’re not fuckin’ a fuckin’ Nazi.” 

Nausea crashes over him again and he violently shakes his head. “No. no. no.” He stutters with vehemence. “A date implies I had a choice in the matter.” Will tumbles over his sentences but pulls himself together before severely spitting, “I don’t want to fuck him. I want to kill him.” 

Aldo’s frustration is gone and replaced with an apologetic sort of pride but Will is not looking at him anymore. The other Basterds are a few feet behind Aldo like shadows, giving the two men room to speak while still being at gawking distance. Will is clenching his fists, breathing harshly through gritted teeth. 

“Let’s go, Will.” Aldo says lightly. He makes no motion to help Will stand, confident that he wouldn’t accept if the help were even offered. 

“We need to set up camp for the night.”

The walk under the docks is brusque and silent. Aldo is at the front of the pack with Wilhelm, both making sure that the coastline is free of people. Will is walking near the middle, tailed only by a sauntering Hugo smoking another one of his hand-rolled cigarettes. It’s twilight and the ocean waves are glowing an eerie black like molten lava, slowly overtaking land as it oozes. The sand crunches under Will’s boots as the Basterds creep forward.

“Looks like everythin’ is clear.” Aldo announces, glancing around the beach one final time before guiding the Basterds further underneath the docks. It’s darker there but tiny slats of light from street lamps wiggle their way through the boards and cast geometric patterns on everyone’s faces. It smells strongly of dead fish, a scent Will isn’t entirely objecting to but Donny groans and mumbles about never finding a place that smells inhabitable. 

Hugo gracelessly drops the bags he’s carrying and sits on the ground, reclining on his elbows like an odalisque. Wilhelm rolls his eyes at Hugo’s laziness and lays out a sleeping bag to rest on. Omar, Smithson and Gerold are unpacking the remaining bags and counting all of the ammunition they have for their small collection of guns. Will’s been eyeing up the sawed off shotgun and hopes to one day use it. 

Donny has his eyes closed while he swings his bat a few times, seemingly narrating a baseball game going on inside of his head. Will takes a seat next to Aldo and slides his glasses back on his face with a sigh of relief. Their leader is sharpening his skinning knife with great care. He nods at Will and says, “gotta keep this thing sharp. Can’t have my third arm not be fightin’ fit.” 

Will’s brows furrow and he leans forward as he asks, “Third arm?”

“This knife here,” Aldo raises his curved weapon, it glints and Will can see his own eyes reflected back at him. “This is a part of me, of who I am. It’s how I fight and how the Nazis remember me.” He continues sharpening but this time it’s with renewed vigor.

“So Donny,” Will tilts his head at the muscular man still swinging and narrating. “The bat is his third arm?” 

Aldo points the tip of his knife at Will playfully, “Right on the nose there, boy.”

The Louisiana native hums in response, mind whirling, before asking another question. 

“Do any of the others have third arms?” 

Will is curious now. The concept isn’t entirely revolutionary to him. He needs to treat his fishing rod as an extension of his body in order to successfully bring in a catch. But to think of hand-to-hand weapons as something so intimate and integral to one’s identity, it makes sense. He has yet to see Aldo fight but he’s heard what Germans have to say about The Apache, his famous nickname earned for scalping Nazis with that very knife.

Aldo stops sharpening momentarily to think about Will’s question. 

“Hugo is pretty fond of his rusty fuckin’ pocket knife.” Aldo calls this statement over Will’s head and gets a one-fingered solute in return from Hugo. He shakes his head warmly before turning back to Will. “Wilhelm has a bayonet he brings out sometimes. But the rest of the boys are pretty cozy with their guns. I only use ‘em when I need ‘em.” 

He wipes his knife off with the sleeve of his worn bomber jacket, satisfied with the sheen. Will didn’t notice Hugo join them until he speaks up in his lazy, gritty voice.

“Guns are too much noise and not enough satisfaction.” Donny raises his bat in agreement as if he’s toasting. Omar, Smithson and Gerold stick out their tongues as they continue to polish their weapons of choice. Will laughs until he’s too tired to smile. 

The sun is only the second intrusion to wake the Basterds the next morning. They’re all first brought out of their slumber by repetitive footsteps above, pacing. Aldo has his index finger over his lips. Wilhelm is glancing through the cracks in the wood curiously.

“They’re soldiers.” Wilhelm mutters, leaning his ear against the boards and straining to hear the mumbled German spoken above them. “They’re discussing a massacre. They killed many Jews under a dock uptown just last night.” 

The Basterds glance at each other with wide eyes, all wondering if they could have been massacred the previous night had Germans thought to check under their dock. The men above sound fainter and their bootsteps are lighter as they walk away. 

“I want to see it.” All eyes shoot to Will. He’s coiled and curled into himself but his face is sharp. “I need to see what they did.” 

Will has never been the firsthand witness to a Nazi massacre. German soldiers he’s tortured have boasted about their handiwork (and Will immediately silences them, it’s difficult to brag about murder when one’s tongue is forcibly removed). But Will has never seen it. And there’s a twisting, nagging feeling tugging at his insides, telling him that this is something he needs to do. 

Aldo nods carefully, understanding. “Let’s go, boys. But be careful. Last thing we need is to get caught there.” They look solemn but follow Aldo’s lead.

Aldo doesn’t risk stepping onto the beach just yet so he herds the Basterds forward, keeping them under the docks. They hear the passing shouts of merriment from beachgoers. But Will doesn’t empathize with their joy; his mind is simultaneously building walls as it destroys them. Preparing him to see the worst but still making him vulnerable enough to truly see.

The splashing ocean water sounds like thick sprays of blood and viscera sloshing to the ground. It’s easy for the laughter of children to turn into screams of terror and the patter of bare feet on sand to become stuttered strides of escape. Will smells salt but the scent quickly becomes coppery and overwhelming until all he tastes is his own vomit creeping up his esophagus. 

Wilhelm and Aldo stop after roughly ten minutes of walking causing the rest of the Basterds to halt as well. This time, Will isn’t imagining the syrupy smell of blood. The stench surrounds them like smog, most of the men are able to stomach it but he sees Gerold crouch to compose himself. 

The sight is truly what causes the men to cover their faces. And it speaks volumes to Will, as a man who has taken many lives, to see a group of killers be so broken over the beaten bodies littering the sandy ground. 

Hugo is the first to step forward, checking between bodies mindlessly for anything that could be useful to them. It’s almost impossible to notice how purposefully he avoids touching the bodies directly, but Will knows. Wilhelm eyes Hugo for a moment then studies their surroundings. Once he’s pleased that they’re momentarily alone, he joins Hugo in his searching with stiff shoulders. 

Will notices Aldo’s hands twitch towards his pocket, yearning to ease his tension with a smoke but he denies the urge. It’s a smart decision from a tactical mind; smoke will give them away. 

Glancing away from Aldo, he sees that Omar and Smithson are patting Gerold’s back, turning him away from the gore. Will doesn’t wonder why they use guns so much anymore. 

Donny distracts him the most; he’s turning his bat in his hands with an anguished, angry growl. Will notices his grip tighten over the signatures that litter his weapon. Then they lock eyes. And Will feels everything like his ribs are collapsing but his chest is expanding. 

He’s seeing the blood through slotted, seething eyes and the carnage only serves to fuel a kindling beneath his breastbone. The flames spread and his stomach is searing with indignant rage. He wants to scream (and its there, just inside his mouth) and bemoan the unjust death until he’s taken and killed as well.

Will tears his eyes away from Donny, briefly shocked at the malleability of his mind (never before had he picked up emotions so powerful) then guilty for invading Donny’s privacy in such an intimate manner. The intense wave of emotions is definitely an appropriate reaction to the massacre laid out before them.

Will doesn’t stare, only flitting his eyes restlessly from body to bloody body. The sense of terror that had once invaded the location has faded only to become stale and stagnant. The Louisiana native feels the urgency and the panic but it’s only a shadow of what it was to the victims. What he senses the most is the glee from German soldiers, the feeling of righteousness that they had done the world a just deed. When a shock of pride grips him, his own feelings of disgust do nothing to push it back. 

But amidst the effluence of deplorable joy, a tendril of security reaches out to Will and grips his hand. He finds himself kneeling in front of a fallen Nazi soldier. His once pristine uniform is brownish and hardened with dried blood. Mouth hanging open unflatteringly, hands close to his face as if one of his last actions were to hide behind them. 

Will doesn’t even notice the harpoon lodged into the man’s chest until he tears his gaze away from his horrified face. He can’t say he’s not sure why he decides to dislodge the harpoon, because that would be a lie, he knows that this man was murdered as an act of protective revenge, one small victory the massacred take with them to the grave. He does it because he needs the harpoon back. It’s killed one Nazi and it needs to taste the blood of more. 

Will enjoys the sickening squelch from the body as the weapon is revealed. The bloody beach around him fades into the background as he admires the harpoon. It’s nowhere near as large as he had expected, measuring about the span of one of his arms. He assumes it must have been used for shallow water fishing and he sardonically guesses it’s continuing that tradition currently. The barb on the end is barely rusted and still sharp, the handle is metal which surprises Will because he had assumed most harpoons were made of fine wood. The rope is missing from the end, used to pull the weapon up from the water. He’ll have to replace that later.

But this would be durable and due to its smaller size, easier to carry and hide. He’s shocked out of his revere by a solid hand on his shoulder; he expects Aldo but is met with the stoic face of Donny instead. 

“Aldo wants us out of here. He’s sure they’ll send people down to check out the scene.” He gestures towards where the other men are huddled. Will senses their concern.

“Alright,” he concedes, testing the weight of the harpoon in his hands. Donny stares before becoming overcome with laughter. He covers his mouth just before the shrill sound reaches its apex.

“Aldo! You owe me five fucking dollars because Will’s third arm is a goddamn harpoon. I told you he was a fisherman through and through.” Donny doesn’t scream but his voice carries over. Will is confused.

“We can talk about this stupid fuckin’ train bet in a place where we won’t get our goddamn throats slit. Now lets get the hell out of here.” Aldo nearly shouts in frustration but brings his voice down at the end. 

Donny rolls his eyes but walks over to him, knowing Will is going to follow. Once the group is reunited, they begin to put as much distance between them and the murder scene as possible. At a safe distance away, Aldo turns to Will.

“Donny and I were dead bored on the train, didn’t realize it would be such a fuckin’ long ride. So we decided to make a bet about what your weapon would be. Now I guessed it would be that sawed off shotgun you’ve been making eyes at since last night. Donny here,” he points his crooked thumb at the muscular man. “Bet that you would use something that has to do with fishin’ and to be honest, I knew he was right when I took a gander at your lures from under the dock when you were with—well you know. I’m too proud to admit I’ve lost until the end though.” Aldo winks at his last statement. It’s a telling gesture that Will files away for later.

“I can’t explain it,” Will begins, gripping the harpoon tight. “I felt drawn to it, still do.”

Aldo clucks his tongue. “Aw, that’s normal. When I found my knife I kept sharpenin’ it until I nearly skinned myself.”

Will hums curiously, “so this is how you felt when you found your third arm?”

“Yes it is. Congratulations, Will.” Aldo pats his back again, this time with a broad smile. Will sees the other Basterds do the same and just because he can, he thrusts the harpoon over his head in a fighting stance. The men cheer as they approach their previous camp.

“Lets pack up and find another place for tonight, alright? The docks are too dangerous for now.” 

The men nod at Aldo’s order and pack in a comfortable silence. Just before noon, they’re on their way again, hiding under the cover of the docks in the opposite direction of the massacre. They’re hoping to find a shelter on the beach, possibly an abandoned vacation home but instead they find themselves shoved to the ground by Wilhelm. 

“Wilhelm, what the fuck?” Aldo is not eloquent but the situation the Basterds are in does not require decorum. Wilhelm has them ducked under the docks; sand seeping into every crevice of their bodies, ordering them to cover their mouths at all costs. Wilhelm shushes Aldo before explaining himself.

“The Germans are speaking quite loudly about someone who might be of interest to our cause. They sound positively terrified of the man.” 

Hugo grunts lowly at Wilhelm’s statement and everyone rolls their eyes at the German native’s petulant jealousy. As if the Nazis will ever forget how their own soldier turned against them so easily. 

Will recognizes one of the voices from above. The strident tones still cause him to double-over with nausea. His stomach feels inside out. “That’s Max.” Will spits, still shaky. Aldo places a hand on his shoulder and Will knows it’s a tacit promise that his patience will pay off later on. 

“So what’re they saying?” Donny asks impatiently, hands twitching for action. Hugo cuts in before Wilhelm has the chance to open his mouth. “Another one of their own was taken. Nothing was found aside from his uniform folded on the doorstep of his Colonel’s home. No fingerprints or hairs to be found.”

Aldo hums, “So this isn’t the first time” Hugo and Wilhelm nod, ears tuned to the harsh voices floating above them. 

“But a note was found tucked into the breast pocket of the uniform. They’re reading it now, a copy was sent to all German battalions. It read, ‘Colonel, terribly sorry that we have to meet like this. I’d like to have told you the news in person but this will do, I have to keep myself a secret after all. Your men are pushing their luck. And I’m appalled at their rudeness. They’ve defiled my family and I plan on defiling more of your people in return. This man here put up quite a fight, you’d be proud. But he couldn’t fight well enough. What a pity. I sliced him up and prepared him in a lovely white wine reduction. I had expected him to taste bitter like the others but surprisingly, he tasted of the sweetest sugar cane. This is a simple, polite courtesy to let you know that I’ll be taking more of your men and adding them to my rolodex of recipes. Don’t fret though, Landa. You’ll be joining them soon enough. Signed, The Cannibal.’” 

Omar and Smithson gasp but are immediately silenced with a slap each from an exasperated Gerold. And then there’s silence. 

All that can be heard is the waves licking the sand and the gulls screaming into the wind. Heavy footsteps are heard above and grow fainter as seconds tick by. The Germans have left the dock. Will is relieved to finally stand so that he can readjust his harpoon. It was digging into his side, near drawing blood and Will didn’t want to be amateur enough to harm himself with his own weapon. The rest of the Basterds dust themselves off and stretch. Aldo is the first to speak.

“Now let me get this straight.” Aldo says slowly. “A cannibal is hunting Nazis? Did’ja gather that much, boys?” There are mumbled affirmatives echoed under the docks.

“Okay,” Aldo continues, “And does he eat anyone? Or just Nazis? What’s his story?”

Wilhelm shrugs. Will decides to speak up, “The letter was mighty polite. This man is educated and has a taste for fine foods. White wine reduction is a plate for the wealthy to eat and the skilled chef to prepare. He’s both. He fights. Better than a Nazi soldier which means he fights very well.” The Basterds are wide-eyed, watching him pace the sand. Omar and Smithson gasp again and, this time, Gerold is too entranced to chastise them. 

“He’s driven by revenge. He said his family was ‘defiled’ so he must ‘defile’ the Germans. I’m guessing his family was eaten by German soldiers and he does the same to them. Though he is polite about it. Rudeness sets him off. Soldiers must frequent somewhere he considers a safe haven. He must own a restaurant. Easy way for him to kill and cook the Nazis without many people noticing.” Will is thoughtful, leaning half his weight against his harpoon. Aldo whistles, impressed. 

“Goddamn Will. Never knew you had such a talent for people.” The other men nod in agreement, still blown away by Will’s apt deduction. The man in question is now confused. “But it’s all in the evidence. Couldn’t ya’ll see that?” There’s a uniform negative answer and Will’s brows furrow. 

“The letter was referring to Colonel Landa.” Hugo cuts in. Will is grateful that the attention of the group is no longer focused on him. It allows him a few moments to gather himself together. Hugo continues in his gruff, aloof voice, “I know him. Most of his troops are stationed in small villages to weed out Jews. He keeps the most men in Belvédère, not far off from here. It’s not what we had originally planned but we could probably find the cannibal there.” Hugo takes a breath, hard eyes scanning the men around him. 

“That is, if you want to recruit him, Aldo.” 

The fleeting silence is tense. Each man is silently weighing the pros and cons of recruiting such a dangerous man into their band of brothers. But if the Germans truly fear him, he’d make the Basterds even more infamous. German soldiers would tuck their children into bed at night and warn them not to let the Basterds bite. Aldo laughs so hard that he clutches his stomach. 

“Well shit. I’ve never met a cannibal before.”


End file.
